


Penance

by NikoNotHere



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bondage, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss, Musicians, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape Aftermath, Recreational Drug Use, Rock Stars, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-01-03 23:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikoNotHere/pseuds/NikoNotHere
Summary: Flake has been found the morning after an apparent drug/alcohol bender with Till, tied, gagged, and without memory of the night before. Till is nowhere to be found. Can Flake piece together the seemingly-horrific mess of what happened with he and Till?





	1. The Morning After

Flake had awoken to pounding on the door. His head swam as he tried to piece together his surroundings. 

He was lying in bed in a mess of piss, blood, vomit, and sweat. He was gagged, his drool creating an additional wet ring around his face as a shoelace rubbed a raw line into his cheek from being pulled too tightly. His hands had lost all circulation from the belt tying them together, but his feet were free. His head, stomach, and really all of his body ached profusely. He tried to swallow, but found his throat cracked and dry. The pounding increased in volume, and he heard Richard's voice hollering for Till and Flake to get the fuck up.

*Me,* he thought blearily. *have to get up and work on the demos.*

He strained and yelled, as well as he could past the makeshift gag of washcloth and shoestring. Maybe Richard could untie him. Why was he tied up? His thoughts were jumbled and disorganized, and he couldn't seem to shake the fog that weighed heavily on his brain. His legs weren't even working properly for some reason, but with enough wiggling, he managed to slide to the end of the bed and flop off. As he hit the floor hard, he felt his head drain of blood from moving too quickly. His vision swam and he worried he was about to vomit. Why was he tied up?

"What the fuck are you doing in there, Till? Stop banging around and open the damn door; we're late."

Richard. He needed Richard to untie him, for something… a demo? Yes, demo. Untie, work on demo. But why was he tied?

He tried yelling again, a muffled "hmmm" ing noise past the gag in his mouth. The pounding stopped for a moment, and then he heard, "Flake? Is that you?"

There was a moment of silence, as Flake forgot again why he needed to talk to Richard, then from behind the door, "Goddammit, Flake, we don't have time for charades. I don't care how hungover you are. I'm coming in, and you better have fucking pants on."

The flimsy hotel door burst open as Richard kicked it in, tired of whatever antics he suspected Flake was up to. 

He heard Richard exclaim several curses in German as he stepped into the room, which was now swimming in fast circles before Flake's dimming eyesight. He was going to pass out. The last thing he heard was his name, followed by Richard yelling for the rest of the band. Flake fell unconscious, asking himself for the hundredth time, *why am I tied up?*

______________

When he woke again, he was on a stretcher in a hospital. He tried swallowing, but his throat was still painfully dry. His thoughts were mildly clearer than before, but still made no sense to him. He turned his head and saw all of his band mates next to the bed, save for Till. 

He saw Richard, one arm crossed tightly over his body, his other hand at his mouth, biting his black colored nails. He was worried.

Oli was sitting and staring at the floor with his hat in his hands wringing it hard. He was angry. 

Paul had a pained look on his face and was pacing the room, each footstep echoing a harsh thump from his boots. He was hurting.

Schneider was sitting beside Oli, a hand on his shoulder but looking out the window distractedly. He was concerned. 

The combined feelings he saw so plainly in the faces and actions of his friends engulfed him. They loved him, and it overwhelmed him. He felt tears welling in his eyes. Why was he suddenly so emotional? A choked sob left his mouth as he tried to get his thoughts under control.

Hearing their friend awake, everyone immediately turned to him and started a barrage of questions. Paul put a hand to Flake's face, asking about his wounds, Oli asked something about a one-night-stand gone bad, Richard asked where the fuck Till had been, and Schneider asked if Flake needed him to call anyone. 

Overwhelmed, Flake held up a shaky hand. "Please," he rasped. They quieted instantly, and he suddenly forgot what he needed to say. Instead, he simply croaked, "Water?" 

Schneider grabbed a styrofoam cup from the bedside and held it to him. Paul lifted Flake's head gently to help him drink. He felt like protesting: he wasn't an invalid for God's sake, much less a baby-- but the touch was comforting, and the water felt heavenly on his raw throat. He swallowed deeply a few times, then leaned his head back and cleared his throat.

"Thank you." His thoughts again left him.

A moment passed after Paul let his head back onto the pillow. Flake suddenly noticed he had several lines hooked to an IV in his hand, and a heart rate monitor blipped noisily beside his bed. Before he could ask what all the fuss was about, Paul spoke up in a low, serious voice, "What happened, Flake?"

"Did some cunt tie you up after having her way with you?" Oli quipped from his seat. Paul shot him an angry look, but Oli just shrugged. "If we have to rescue him from a crazed fan or random-ass hooker, we deserve to know."

Flake swallowed painfully and shook his head. What were they going on about? 

"The doctor says you were really doped up, I mean a lot of drugs, Flake," Schneider said. "Why did you take all of that? He said it was a really dangerous amount, and so many different kinds. You could have died."

"What?" He managed. "I didn't--" he was cut off by Richard's irritated voice.

"And where the hell is Till? You left with him; where did he fuck off to? Did he throw you a bunch of drugs and tell you to go crazy? The drugs he takes could kill a bull. You should have known better."

Flake hesitated at the mention of his friend's name. A wave of nausea hit him as he suddenly remembered blurry pieces from the night before. 

A cup with alcohol and a random assortment of pills swirling in it forced into his hand by Till, who demanded he drink with him. He'd obliged, and the bitter concoction nearly made him vomit, but Till had clapped a hand over his mouth and forced him to breathe through his nose to keep it down. He'd been surprised, but trusted his friend. His week had been anything but kind, and Till had promised this mix would relax and settle him.

Flake returned to the present as the contents of his stomach returned to his mouth. Paul and Schneider stepped back from the bed hastily as Flake vomited over the side. Richard sighed and grabbed a small trash can near the door and brought it to Flake's side as he heaved again. 

"We can't be doing this again," he murmured to Paul, who'd put a hand back on Flake's head gently while he retched. Paul simply looked at him and shook his head. Now was not the time for lectures. Richard sighed again, but dutifully held the trash can for his band mate. 

Once it seemed Flake's stomach was finally empty, he lay back against the pillow, wheezing slightly. 

"What happened, Flake?" Paul asked again, quietly. 

Flake struggled internally. His memory was a mess, probably from whatever potion Till had concocted for him. But he refused to throw his friend under the bus for his own choices. He remembered taking the drink, and that was on him. 

"I don't remember," he said in a half truth. "I just took something with vodka."

"You had half a pharmacy in your bloodwork," Schneider reiterated, his tone raising angrily. "You didn't take "something." You took at least seven "somethings," by your blood panel. Cocaine, MDMA, quaaludes, heroin for God's sake. Were you *trying* to kill yourself?"

Flake was stunned. Till had said nothing about heroin, or at least not that he could remember. He knew the dangers of it and had sworn never to touch the stuff after seeing the shit Richard had gone through. Surely he wouldn't have given it to him. 

"I didn't know," he said. "I don't remember."

Schneider looked as if he wanted to say more but Paul held up a hand again to quiet him. "The doctor said memory loss and confusion is expected. From everything you took, he said he'd be surprised if you recalled anything from last night, but we really need you to try. If there's a crazy fan or someone trying to hurt you, we need to know. What's the last thing you remember?"

Flake pressed his memory, trying to see back through his mind and past Till's cocktail. Fragmented, blurry pieces of the night swam through his recollections. He remembered seeing a belt snapped in someone's hand, felt a gag in his mouth, and remembered a feeling of euphoria, soaring through clouds and sunrises before diving back down to earth. 

Suddenly, an image of Till spung up very clearly, his head buried in his bloody hands, weeping. Flake wanted more than anything to reach out a hand to comfort him--  
But then searing, cutting, burning, aching-- so many forms of pain washed over him and ripped the thought away.

He gasped, and came back to himself in the hospital. His friends all waited for an answer that he now knew he wouldn't give.

"I don't remember anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I am brand new to this site, so if there's something I'm missing or doing wrong, please let me know.
> 
> Also feel free to contact me with any suggestions, questions, or anything at all, really. I hope you've enjoyed so far, and I look forward to hearing if you want more!


	2. Flashbacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fragments continue to appear in Flake's mind, but the more that come, the less his night makes sense.

After Flake's continued insistence that he couldn't remember the night before, the band members each retreated to their own worlds.

Paul stayed with Flake, not speaking much, just providing company as Flake struggled to piece together what he could of his lost memory.

Schneider stepped outside to phone the studio and their manager with Richard close behind, already lighting a cigarette before even leaving the hospital.

Oli hesitated at the door. He took Paul aside and muttered in his ear. Flake couldn't hear everything, but made out "Till" and "last leg" before Paul grunted and nodded. Oli put his hat back on, shoved his hands into his pockets and trudged out.

Later that day, Flake was given the all-clear by the doctors to leave and return home, with bed rest and plenty of fluids prescribed to bring him back to full health. 

Paul drove them back to the hotel in relative silence. Their manager had offered to come pick them up, but Paul chose the time alone with his friend. 

"How do you feel?" he finally asked. "How are the wounds?"

Flake made a face, and ran a finger along the painful friction burn across his cheek from the gag. He had been given enough fluids and counteracting medication to bring him to some semblance of normalcy, so his words came back to him as easily as they always had. 

"I feel like shit. Everything hurts and I'm probably dying of multiple organ failure from the drugs. My face has a joker cut and I feel dead already."

"They stabilized you."

"Stability can still mean you're dying, just in a stable manner."

Paul snorted. "Well, I'm glad you're all right."

"I am too."

Paul paused, and then looked him over. "Are you?"

Flake smiled ruefully. "I'm not suicidal. I'd pick a much more exciting way to go than drowning in my own vomit, naked in a hotel bed. Maybe skydiving with no parachute."

Paul didn't laugh, and the silence bothered Flake.

He sighed. "I don't know what happened, but I know it wasn't because I wanted to die. I feel fine mentally, at least as fine as I can with a chunk of time missing. No worse than a drunk blackout."

"And you don't remember anyone with you when you drank?"

"No, I don't."

"Do you even have a guess as to why that happened? I mean--" Paul cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing, "You couldn't really have gagged and tied yourself up."

Flake rubbed his face, shame washing over him at his friends finding him in that state. 

"Believe me, I wish I could remember as much as you do. Probably more, in fact. I never bring women from the shows, and I don't remember calling anyone for--well, *that* last night. I just don't know."

"What about Till? No one can get ahold of him, and you were the last person with him. Do you think you two were coming up with a new act for the demo and got carried away, or--"

"No!"

Paul flinched at the shout, swerving the car a bit before glaring over at his passenger.

Flake stammered hastily, "I-- sorry. Till wasn't there. I drank with him for a bit, but he got tired and left. I have no idea where he went, but he wasn't with me. That's all I know for sure."

Paul's brow furrowed at him. "All right. So, if it wasn't Till, I guess we just have to assume that after getting shitfaced, your morality went out the window with your memory and you ordered a hooker or something."

Flake reddened and slunk into the car seat. "I guess so."

Paul cleared his throat again before saying hesitantly, "Listen. I didn't bring it up with the others, but when we found you, like you know, you were tied up, gagged, and naked."

"Paul, please," Flake interrupted, desperate to crawl into a hole and disappear, "I don't want to talk about--"

"Just listen to me, dammit, this is awkward enough without having to stop every five words. I need to know if your, well, your *interests* involve... " Paul wiped a hand over his face as he struggled to find the right words.

"I'll just say it. Your ass was bloody, bruised, and clawed all to hell. You had scratches and fingerprints all over your body. The doctors asked about doing a rape kit because of how it all looked. I declined at the time because half the staff recognized us, and I knew you didn't need that shit floating around if it's just, well, your *preference.*"

He looked over at Flake, who seemed as though he'd rather the van suddenly exploded than to be the recipient of this line of questioning. 

"Just.. just tell me if it's possible that mess was intentional. If not, we're flipping this car around and going right to the police."

At the word "police," another hazy memory floated back to Flake's consciousness. 

Till's face in front of his, very close, muttering. He couldn't make out the words, and heard little more than slurs and mumbles. He didn't know whether it was from the drugs he'd taken or whether Till had been drunk, but the memory continued. Till staggered back away from him, and Flake recalled a giddy feeling bubbling up from his toes. 

It filled his body until it hit his head, and he burst out laughing. Till standing in front of him was suddenly the funniest sight he'd ever seen in his entire life. He cackled with laughter, feeling tears springing to his eyes. He bent over, hands on his knees as his body was racked with uncontrollable hilarity He looked back up at Till, eager for his friend to join in the laughter.

He'd almost been sobered by the look right then. There was no amiable light in Till's eyes as there normally was when they were together. His eyes were dark, hollow. His brow was lowered into a glare, and Flake barely saw a flash of movement before feeling a sudden blow against his face. He fell backward, stunned by the punch that he'd barely seen. 

It didn't hurt, he remembered musing as he tripped backward over the bed and fell to the ground. That amused him further, and he started to laugh again. This time, Till reached down and grabbed him by the shirt, hauling him to his feet. Before he punched him again, Flake made out the words "call the police before I--" Till's voice faded into a jumbled mess as his fist smashed into his face once again. Flake still felt nothing but a quick burst of pressure. 

The memory ended abruptly, leaving Flake hollow and sick. How had that happened? What had he done in his drugged state to piss off his best friend? How had he even gotten to that point?

"Flake? Flake, answer me. That's it; we're going to the police."

"No," Flake muttered. "There's no need. I've experimented in the past. It's not an unusual thing, so I probably did it again this time. Don't go to the police." His voice was now so quiet Paul could barely hear him.

"Are you sure?" Paul sounded exceptionally doubtful, but Flake nodded. 

"I don't believe it was a rape."

Paul stared at his friend for a hard minute, then nodded slowly. "All right."

Flake put a hand on the side of his head and slunk even further down into the seat. "Please don't tell the others."

"I won't. They'll ask a lot of questions, but if you don't want to answer them, that's your business. We just want you to be okay."

"Thank you."

Paul kept one hand on the wheel, but put his other on Flake's shoulder. "Whatever happened, it's in the past. We'll all move forward together."


	3. Running Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flake and Oli try to track down Till, who is becoming harder and harder to find.

All the notes on his keyboard sounded sour, almost a full note sharp. Flake frowned and inspected the keyboard, checking that the settings hadn't been fiddled with in his absence. Richard had an extremely annoying tendency to fuck around with everyone else's instruments when he was bored and alone in the studio. 

He pressed middle "C" and noted that the keyboard seemed to be calibrated exactly as he'd left it last week. He sat down on the nearby stool with a sigh and put his chin in his hand. Why were the sounds so *off*?

He blinked sleepily, and sat up to rub his tired eyes behind his glasses. He'd not had a proper night's sleep since "the incident," as he'd taken to calling it in his head. 

Calling it anything at all still made him wildly uncomfortable. He preferred to ignore and dismiss that it had even happened. By not thinking about it, he'd managed to push aside the concern and nagging fears associated with it. Primarily what in the fresh hell had made Till so upset that he'd-- at the very least-- punched Flake hard enough to loosen teeth? He still couldn't remember much more than that, which was a large part of the reason he'd been avoiding thinking about it at all. If he didn't remember, he didn't need to acknowledge that his friend had hurt him.

Flake ran his tongue over the still-painful teeth in question. He tapped the "C" key again, more dismissively than attempting to fix it. It trilled, ending again in a very sharp tone. He sighed loudly, then dropped his head down onto it in frustration, releasing a squawking cluster of sour notes.

"Sounds great. Let's record and release it just like that."

Flake raised his head enough to turn and look toward the door, stopping the discordant notes. 

Oli stood in the doorway with his arms folded, head bent slightly as he barely fit under the frame. He took a final drag out of his smouldering cigarette and crushed it into a conveniently placed ash tray. With so many heavy smokers in the band, they'd made conveniencing themselves a priority. 

"You're just trying to get out of recording your bass lines," Flake protested, switching off the keyboard and laying his head back down on it. His head still hurt, even though it had been several days since waking up in the hospital. That cut on his left cheek was also definitely going to scar. Lucky him.

Oli shrugged and said, "Nah. You know I can knock my part out in an hour or two." 

This was true. Oli always seemed to be the quickest one in and out of the studio when they recorded.

Oli ambled over to Flake and his keyboard and sat down in one of the several rolling office chairs nearby. 

Neither spoke for a few minutes. The two had always been comfortable in one another's company, even without the need for conversation. As a fellow tall, thinner-built man, Oli seemed to understand Flake a bit more sometimes than the others; granted, Oli was more athletic than he, but that didn't dissuade the feeling of camaraderie. Despite this connection, they rarely spoke one-on-one. If they did, it was usually to complain about ill-fitting clothes and doorways built far too low for their liking.

Oli finally broke the silence. "We still can't get ahold of Till."

Flake sat back up, rolling his sore neck in the process. "No answer on his phone?"

"Just says the number is no longer is service."

This alarmed Flake. Till was known for his occasional benders, sometimes lasting days at a time before they heard from him, but he always had his phone. Even if he didn't answer it, he kept it on and with him. 

"And no one saw him after he drank with me? No one in the hotel, the studio exec's, nobody?"

Oli shrugged and shook his head.

Flake's brow furrowed.

"Doesn't he have an iPhone? What about that "find my phone" thing? Can we see the last place it was active? That'll at least give us something to go on. Hopefully he lost it at the hotel and just forgot to pay his bill."

Oli nodded thoughtfully, scratching his bearded chin. "Couldn't hurt, I guess."

Flake pulled out his phone, suprised he hadn't thought of this sooner. 

*You haven't been thinking about him on purpose,* said a nagging voice in his head. Flake grimaced as he pulled up the app on his phone and put in Till's information. 

*You're doing everything you can to avoid thinking about him.*

Flake closed his eyes and cocked his head, irritated at his overly loud thoughts. He took a deep breath, willing his mind to focus. He tapped in the rest of Till's email address with slightly more force.

Oli leaned over his shoulder, watching as Flake loaded the screen to put in Till's Google password. Oli raised an eyebrow.

"Till gave you his account password?"

Flake waved a hand dismissively. "He gave it to me forever ago and his password is stupid." He then typed in "DoktorDicka69" in the password field and hit enter.

Oli snorted. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Flake declined to answer and waited for the information to load. 

They were both somewhat suprised to see the phone was indeed at the hotel, though with very limited battery life remaining. Perhaps he'd made his way to a lady's room and gone on a very prolonged bender, forgetting his phone entirely. It was certainly not outside the realm of possibility. Till had been distant at best lately, and it was very likely due to heavier drug use than normal. Till had openly partaken in everything under the sun that wasn't injectable, drawing the line at needles.

"I only like needles if they're being used to help jam metal jewelry into my skin," he'd declared on more than one occasion.

Though he might have gotten very fucked up, he at least was unlikely to have overdosed on anything either. Even though he seemed flippant about his drug use, Till was always extremely diligent with it, Flake recalled. Even cocaine he measured out into astoundingly precise measurements, only using the bare minimum for whatever he wanted it for. Sex, creativity, just "feeling something different," they'd all been very carefully measured highs, almost to a clinical degree. 

Till wouldn't have allowed it otherwise, Flake assured himself. That's why Flake had trusted him the other night with--

Just as quickly as the thoughts tried to surface, Flake slammed his mental doors closed. No need for going down that path right now. He had a phone to find.

"Well, that's something, I guess," Oli said, referring to the phone's location. "Do you want to go get it? I've got nothing to do today."

"I doubt I'll get much done here," Flake sighed. "We might as well."

With that, the two locked up behind themselves and drove back out to the hotel. The ride was quiet, with Oli having opted to drive them out there. Flake didn't mind the quiet. It let him think, primarily about what he was going to say to Till if he were still at the hotel. Lots of loud, choice words. Several "fuck you's," And maybe an instance of "why the hell did you punch me?"

Oli broke the silence after awhile, quietly asking, "Are you ok, Flake?"

Flake sighed. It was an innocent question, and a caring one at that. He didn't fault Oli for it at all; but he wished he didn't have to answer.  
"I'm fine," he finally managed, giving Oli a half-hearted smile. "Just very tired. I think this album is taking it out of me."

Oli nodded and said, "I can understand that. I felt that way with Rosenrot. It came so quickly after Reise, Reise that I felt I didn't have time to recuperate. Some albums are just hard."

Flake made a noise of agreement, though he knew his own answer had been bullshit. The album wasn't tiring him, and in fact was a way for him to escape his own thoughts and breathe easier as of late. But he didn't bother correcting his statement. 

The rest of the ride was as quiet as the first half, with neither Oli nor Flake feeling pressured to fill the absence of sound with their own voices, and Flake was thankful for it.

When they got to the hotel, Flake frowned at the apparent location showing on his phone. 

"It looks like it's there, outside the hotel somewhere. Is that what it looks like to you?" Flake asked, handing the phone to Oli for a second opinion.

Oli hmm'ed as he inspected the location for a moment, then said, "It does look like it says it's right out front there in the parking lot somewhere."

"Maybe he dropped it on his way up," Flake suggested, then backtracked. "No, he couldn't have. I think I remember him using it when we drank."  
Flake tried recalling more clearly what Till had been doing with the phone, but to no avail. Only scattered glimpses of Till holding it and scowling at it were coming to mind.

"Maybe it fell out of his pocket as he left or something and he just hasn't gotten a new one yet. Try using the noise thing," Oli suggested, getting out of the car. "Maybe we can hear it if it's dropped out here somewhere."

"Oh, right," Flake agreed. "That's a good idea. Here, listen."

Flake hit the virtual button to ring Till's cell phone. They both paused to listen, and simultaneously spun around as they heard a faint, high pitched ringing. They glanced about, trying to pinpoint the location as the ringing grew louder. 

"Oh fuck," Flake blurted in dismay, and Oli laughed at his outburst. He had come to the same realization Flake just had.

The ringing was coming from the direction of the large dumpster around the side of the hotel.

"If he threw it away, I swear…" Flake's threat trailed off as he stomped over to the dumpster.

The ringing was definitely coming from the dumpster.

Flake groaned. "Of course it's in the trash. The idiot must have dropped it in a trash can or in a mess of stuff in his room and it got thrown away. Perfect."

"Well, we know he doesn't have it with him, at least," Oli offered, attempting to look on the brightside.

"Yes, but that also doesn't help us find him, either," Flake pointed out. "Maybe with the phone we could, I don't know, see if he called anyone, or texted his plans."

Flake grimaced at the dumpster, and Oli patted his back.  
"Want me to see if I can reach it?" he offered. He knew Flake had been through a lot, and despite his earlier irritation at the situation, he did care for his band mate. 

A relieved and grateful smile spread onto Flake's face, and he said, "Please, yes."

Oli pushed open the left side of the dumpster. He looked around inside for a moment, then asked Flake to ping the phone again. 

He did so, and the two saw a light flash on in the darkness with the high pitched ring echoing inside. 

"Ah, right there," Oli muttered to himself. He grabbed the side of the dumpster, jumped up and balanced his midsection on the metal lip. He stuck his legs out as a counterweight and reached far forward, effectively balancing himself and hovering over the garbage. Oli made a grab for the phone, missed, and nearly fell forward into the trash. Flake grabbed his feet, balancing him again. Oli shot him a nod of thanks, then leaned forward again.

With a triumphant shout, Oli snagged the phone. Flake sighed in relief, and helped Oli shuffle back off the dumpster. He handed the phone to Flake, who made a face at it and backed away. Oli rolled his eyes, wiped the phone off on his pants (even though there were no visible signs or dirt or grime on it) and then handed it to Flake again.

"Thank you," Flake said, turning the phone over and peering at it suspiciously.

"Now what?"

"Well, we clearly know he doesn't have his phone on him, as you said. I'm going to hazard a guess it got dropped in a room with since girl, probably just a long bender. He's either still going, or out buying a new phone now and trying to remember everyone's numbers."

"It seems weird he wouldn't have come and found us yet," Oli said, a hint of concern in his voice. 

Flake did have to admit it was especially odd behavior for Till. "What other option could there be?" Flake asked.

Oli shrugged in defeat, and Flake again looked the phone over. He turned the screen on, unsurprised to find it covered in cracks. Till was never careful with his electronics. Their microphone budget was proof enough of that.

When Flake tried to go to the home page, a screen lock popped up. With a frown, he tried punching in several combinations of numbers he knew Till used frequently: Rammstein's date of inception, the classic 1234, 4321 (which he knew for a fact Till had used in the past), and finally, with a groan, 80085, which when done in the font Till had chosen for his phone, read like the word "BOOBS."

Flake was almost grateful that last one wasn't it, but the relief was replaced by irritation when the screen informed him the phone was locked out for 5 minutes. 

"Try a new code every 4 minutes," Oli suggested. "It's a workaround with this type of lock. It only registers attempts done every 3 or fewer minutes. Most people dont have patience to wait 4 or more minutes between attempts."

Flake nodded but was only half listening. The one long crack that ran down the left side of the screen seemed especially familiar. His eyes widened as a flashback memory hit him suddenly:

\--------------

Till threw his cellphone to the ground and Flake heard a small crack. Till needed to be careful, he thought briefly.

"Hurt me, Flake," Till said desperately, rushing over and grabbing his shoulders. "Please. Hit me, scratch me, kick my face, anything, just make it *hurt*. Please!"

He'd been so puzzled at the request, and the buzzing in his head from the combination of drugs and alcohol in his system made Till's begging even more bizarre. 

"You're my best friend, Till," Flake slurred. "I'd never hurt you. I love you."

At that, Till's expression became even more pained. It was as if Flake had said he'd just killed the man's family. Tears leaked from his eyes as he spun about, hands grabbing manically at his hair. A brief lucid thought passed through Flake's mind, and tried to inform him that Till likely had far too much of whatever he'd been snorting and drinking, but the thought was gone just as quickly as it had come.

"No, no, no, no," Till repeated to himself as he paced across the room. He came back to Flake and shoved a finger accusatorily in his face and said, "That's the *fucking* problem, Lorenz. I can't live like this anymore. I'm only going to hurt you, and I need you to hurt me before that happens, or, I don't know what. Please!" Till fell to his knees, his hands clasped together in front of a bewildered Flake. "Just fucking hurt me so I can feel something, anything different!"

Flake remembered the look on Till's face so clearly, in so much detail compared to the rest of the night. The trails of tears down his stubbled cheeks, the teeth bared in an agonized grimace, his trembling hands held together in pleading reverence to him, the shaking not just from the unholy amount of drugs he'd done, but also whatever turmoil his soul was festering in. 

Though his mind saw Till clearly, he could only barely follow the logic of their conversation mentally, and he scrunched up his nose in confusion, his glasses partially askew.  
"What's so bad about love? You don't want me to love you? I can only love you, not hurt you."

Till suddenly beat the floor of the hotel room with both fists, hard, and shouted, "No!"

Flake took a step forward to pat Till's sweaty head, trying to console him. From what, he had no idea. His thoughts had left, and whatever remained was a very simple desire to comfort his friend. Till needed love, and Flake had more than enough to give. He always had, especially for Till. Unfortunately that train of thought also left as quickly as it had come, and he couldn't remember why he was reaching for the crouching, shaking figure.

As soon as his hand touched Till's head, the man wrenched himself away, his grimace turning into a snarl as he stared up at Flake. The thinner man recoiled at the sudden fire he saw in his friend's knifing glare. What did he do wrong?

Till stumbled up to his feet and balled his hands into fists at his side.

"You won't hurt me? Fine. I'll make you hate me. I'll show you what'll happen if I let you love me. You'll never feel love for me again, I swear it."

Till had leaned into Flake's face as he growled his threats. Flake had felt an uncontrollable hilarity then, and laughed outright. He had no idea why...

\---------

Ah, there it was. Flake was beginning to piece the night together. That was when Till had punched him, staggering him across the room. He'd grabbed his shirt and hauled him up, with Flake still giggling. And now, Flake remembered tears streaking down Till's anguished face as he'd begged, "Please, Flake. Call the police before I kill you."

Till had punched him again, and that was where Flake's memory ceased.

He snapped back to the present with a whimper, and realized Oli was holding him by the shoulders and gently shaking him. He had a strongly concerned look on his face, his eyebrows knit together in worry.  
"Flake, what's wrong?"

He flinched out of Oli's hold abruptly, not liking the feeling of being touched at all right now.  
"I'm fine," he whispered hoarsely. "Can we just go back to the studio? I'll keep trying to unlock the phone."

Oli looked like he wanted to press the matter, but the haunted look on Flake's face kept his tongue silent. He just nodded, and walked back over to the car.

Flake was mindlessly tapping in random codes that came to mind all the way back to the studio. Important dates, numbers in patterns, eventually random numbers all got thrown at the lock screen, but none worked. 

As soon as they pulled back into the studio, Flake got out, not enjoying the confining nature of sitting in a car right then. Oli stayed in the car, and sent a group text to Paul, Richard, and Schneider to update them on their attempt to find Till, as well as Flake's seemingly chaotic mental state. Though he didn't express it much outwardly, Oli cared deeply for the band, and this disappearance and trouble with Flake had put him on edge as well.

In the studio, Flake dropped heavily into his favorite chair, staring at the blank, cracked phone screen. A wave of irritation hit him, and he began rapidly punching in random birthdates, the only series of numbers that were coming to mind.

Suddenly, the phone opened with a click. Startled, Flake tried to remember the last set of numbers he'd input:

161166

It was his birthdate, 16 November of 1966. 

A weird feeling creeped into his gut, and he couldn't immediately identify it. He chose instead to ignore it, and began hurriedly flipping through the phone's contents for clues to where Till might be. 

He'd made a few calls, to no one of note, and none after 9pm when he'd been drinking with Flake. His texts were composed of lewd messages between he and several women, a few scattered text chains about work-related things, brief chats with all band members earlier in the day-- nothing noteworthy there either. All of his communication seemed to stop right around 9pm. 

Flake scratched his head, confused. He knew for sure he'd seen Till using it during various points of the night, at least what he could remember. He couldn't recall him talking on it though, but he did remember him typing, as if texting. 

Flake pulled up the phone's internet history after connecting to their studio's Wifi and rolled his eyes at the amount of porn he had to sift through. Say what you will about the man's age-- his libido was still alive and kicking.

After figuring out how to sort by time, looking through it was much easier. There was a gap between 9pm and 2am, and then two notable websites accessed around the same time. It seems he'd bought a new phone on the one site, which was unsurprising given the cracked state of this phone, Flake thought. It didn't give exact details as to where it was being delivered, but looked as if Till had ordered it to be picked up in a store that next morning. The other site was apparently a cheap flight website, but it seemed if he'd bought a ticket, any confirmation had been permanently deleted from the email inbox, and Flake didn't have the login information to access Till's flight account. He frowned, wondering why the hell Till had taken care to erase where he was going. This was extremely unlike him. 

While he occasionally took weekend trips to various places, especially Russia, he was always very careful to clear it with everyone in the band first. He'd never just left with no warning before. Why was he seemingly running away?

Stumped, Flake searched through the phone again, trying to see if he'd missed something. An app suddenly caught his eye amongst the various games and books Till had downloaded. It was a sort of writing app, it seemed. That made sense. If Till were unable to reach his little black lyric book, an app would do just as well.

Out of pure curiosity, Flake browsed through the mess of lyric snippets, poetry fragments, and rambling thoughts he'd put down. They were all very old, some of which were actually years old. Flake continued looking, and noticed a private folder with another passcode. Warily, he tried putting in his birthdate, and it worked. A notice popped up, reminding him that this folder was backed up to "the cloud." Though semi-illiterate with technology, Flake had worked with enough music software to know that meant this folder was saved elsewhere, and able to be accessed anytime as long as one had internet and the passcode. Flake swallowed hard as he realized what the folder contained.

It was Till's personal journal. 

More importantly than that, the last entry had been dated earlier that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I am so sorry about the delay in this chapter. I got so wrapped up in so many things that this one took a back seat, and to be honest it needed a good reworking as far as the plot was concerned. 
> 
> Now, I've got it down in a direction I really, really love. I hope you all do too <3


End file.
